


Proposals

by petercapaldiscoiffure



Series: Emeline Trevelyan [7]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3463127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petercapaldiscoiffure/pseuds/petercapaldiscoiffure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let's get married."</p><p>The Iron Bull receives an unexpected proposal from his Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proposals

**Author's Note:**

> my inquisitor's a bit of a free spirit, what can i say.

**"L** et’s get married.”

Iron Bull looks over to where Emeline’s lounging, wonderfully naked, across the warm meadow grass. She’s flat on her stomach, long legs swinging in the air, braiding together bits of weeds and errant wildflowers and peeking at him slyly from the corner of her eye.

He’d be quietly horrified if she wasn’t so obviously trying not to laugh, and the wine and smoke from the Midsummer’s celebration (the earlier one back at Skyhold, and the later, much funner, private one) hadn’t mellowed his mind to a comfortable haze. So instead his belly just rumbles with a low roll of laughter and he thinks about how he likes the way the early evening sun plays across her hair, all reds and golds across that dark sea of inky black.

"Married, huh?"

"Of course." She flicks a dandelion head at him before snatching up another - her aim is terrible and it misses by half a foot. "It’s the season for it, you know. In Ostwick they say the pixies bless marriages made on the summer solstice. Though I’m not sure what that entails, actually. I don’t think pixies are supposed to do much other than spoil your cow’s milk, really. And we don’t have any cows." The elfroot’s clearly gone to her head a little by now, and he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t interrupt she’ll start winding her thoughts around just what they  _do_  have that could spoil, and exactly how a pixie could do it. And there’s a lot of shit in Skyhold. It could take hours. But maybe it’s gone to his too because he thinks the pixie-whatsits sound kind of cute, and the way her brow wrinkles when she’s thinking is pretty cute too, and it doesn’t occur to him that getting her back on track means getting back to talking about weird Southern marriage rituals.

"Hey, maybe it’s the thought that counts."

She props her head up on her hand and smiles before blowing her dandelion in his direction, wiggles her brows when the feathery seeds tickle his nose.

"Maybe."

Bull huffs a laugh and watches the last of the dandelion puffs float away on the breeze, finds his fingers have somehow crept over to play with tendrils of her long hair.  She wears it up so often - there’s too damn much of it to do otherwise.  Have to take advantage of the times she can let it loose.

"These pixies of yours - they going to officiate? I thought you needed one of your Revered Mothers or Sisters or whatever to make it official."

Emeline scoffs. “Of course not, that’s ridiculous.”  She looks like she’s about to say something more when the twitter of bird song distracts her, and when she looks up a grin spreads wide across her face. She pokes his arm and nods up at the trees overhead. “He will. He has the little red hat and everything.”

When Iron Bull pulls his eye away from her long enough to follow her nod and he spies the cardinal hopping from branch to branch, he thinks -  _well, damn. He does. Look at that._  He also briefly wonders how quick he could grab it if it divebombs them, but he doesn’t mention that.  He just moves his hand up to hers, tugs it in invitation to move a little closer.

"Yeah, that’s definitely not ridiculous."

She bites her lip, all impish smiles and teases, her body edging nearer at his cue. “No, it’s all terribly, _terribly_  serious.”  

She crawls on top of him then, almost tumbling right back off before he grabs her hips and holds her steady, grass-stained knees digging into his sides. He only gets jabbed in the stomach once in the process - a record, probably.

"Right. So you think Mother Giselle will approve?"

Emeline tuts at that, frowning like a school marm at him. “How rude of you, to question Mother Cardinal’s authority right under his nose.” She pauses, frown slipping for a moment before she regains herself. “Beak - his beak. And  _he_ most certainly approves. I can tell.”

Bull looks up again and thinks about the only thing concerning the little bird is the swinging of a particularly weak looking branch, but what does he know? Shit, maybe she  _can_  tell, all that magical mind-fucking crap she can do. At this particular moment, head more than a little fuzzy and the sun shifting light and dark across her face and those eyes glinting gold, it seems kind of plausible. He grins a little.

"So the  _abanassran_  can speak to the other little birds now, huh?”

She shrugs, lazy, and then bends her head down low to his, eyes half-lidded and coy.

"Why just now? Maybe I always could."

If he’s honest, Bull’s not entirely sure where this is all leading.  The funny little wordplay and the teasing is more her arena than his. But he’s enjoyably sleepy and her tits are jiggling so appealingly and her thighs are so warm against his skin he can’t really bring himself to care. Marriages involve fucking, right? Ideally. Even fake marriages overseen by bored birds. Consummation. Nice and slow and sweet, romantic, maybe. Though romantic for them generally isn’t any of those things. Still, easy on the energy output, anyway, and that sounds pretty nice to him right about now. And when she slides up across him, back arched like a lazy cat, and starts to pepper little kisses over his face, butterfly flutters across his forehead, nose, cheeks, he thinks she’s on the same track.

But right when his hands are sliding towards infinitely more interesting places than her hips, she pulls back just a little, flutters her lashes, grins and bites her lip. “But we need  _rings_.”

He can only groan, and she hmphs at him.

"Revered Mother Cardinal is on a very tight schedule, Bull, I don’t make the rules."

He grunts, his hand making its way up to brush a thumb over the tip of her breast. “Maybe Revered Mother Cardinal needs to break into the holy wine stash and relax a little.”

"Mm, probably. Most do." Her eyes are already roaming away from him and over the sun-dappled grass, looking for…something, he’s not sure what, but then he usually isn’t - she’s nothing if not a constant surprise.  Then she’s making a happy little ‘a-ha!’ noise and stretching out above him to grasp at something just beyond his horns, and he’s got a face full of tits - so whatever she’s doing, it’s definitely not the worst situation he’s ever found himself in.

When she pulls back, she’s got her flower chains draped across her arms and two more of those dandelions in her fingers, bright little suns in full bloom.  Before he can be too sad about the sudden distance between him and her softer bits, she’s managed to tie one around his finger and the other around hers, twisting off and tossing aside the trailing stems. Next, the lengths of flowers and woven grass are circled around his head and then hers, and she takes a look at him.  The Iron Bull, scarred as a butcher’s table, tough as old leather - a little stoned, a little confused, wearing a lopsided smile and a string of flowers like some fairy prince and nothing else at all. It’s undeniably absurd, and she can’t help but start to laugh.

"Perfect." She leans down to cup his face in her hands, kisses brush over his lips, delighted giggles breathe into his mouth. "You’re perfect." 

It sounds a lot like a joke and, maybe underneath, a little bit like “I love you” and it’s as close to a wedding vow as she cares to know, anyway.  And he’s hardly better off, so his little grunt in response, the scrape of his stubble across her skin when he laughs against her lips and presses his own hard against them, even the pull of his fingers in her tangled hair - they’ll have to do.

Overhead, Revered Mother Cardinal sings his birdsong into the evening, and before he gets too distracted Iron Bull thinks maybe he does approve after all.


End file.
